Holy Crap it's Summer

Well nearly....

Spring has sprung the grass has riz, I wonder where the birdies is?

They’re all bonking in the bush at the end of our garden. The smutty goings on resembles a Roman orgy. I would advise anyone passing nearby to please avert their gaze, it’ll just scare them, especially the sensitive ones. It would appear that the dividing fence between the neighbors and us is now a red light district for our feathery chums. Imagine a back alley in Amsterdam with fewer neon lights and more tits on display.
THAT is our garden.
I should charge admission to the starlings who clearly are just here on a stag doo. Even the resident squirrel takes the long way round. He would clearly rather gobble his nuts in piece and who can blame him. Sparrows aren't very romantic. There are no fine wines and Belgian chocolates. There are no candle lit meals in posh swanky restaurants, not even a takeaway and a bottle of Lambrini. There’s just a lot of noise and feathers with girl sparrows being wooed with boy sparrow chat up line invitations to “sprig my millet”. Utter filth.
I thought I lived in a posh part of suburbia but the feathered foulness outside would beg to differ. If there is such thing as a bird benefit office, then it’s going to get really busy in a few weeks time. Mental note: must follow some pregnant sparrows one day to see if they fly back towards the estate and or Liverpool.

On a happier note the sun came out today. The locals ran for cover thinking the sky was on fire. There was a strange hissing sound as people began to dry out. Natural selection has meant that people in 'tut north' have evolved gills and the ability to see in really low light conditions. It’s quite impressive until you watch them cower at the sight of the fiery sky orb, or ‘hot moon’ to use its local derivation. The braver northerner will actively seek out the ‘squinter ball’ and expose their flesh in an act of defiance. The skin of the Caucasian northerner is so white that initially at least all of the suns rays are reflected back into space thus helping to combat climate change. However after just a few minutes of ultra violet the white flesh turns crimson and then red severely hampering the reflective capabilities. A red colour change is always fiercely resisted by the majority ‘true’ northern folk. They have a natural affinity with being pale blue and lack luster. You know these people as Manchester City supporters.
Several consecutive days of sunshine are dangerous as most of the reservoirs/puddles empty into assorted super soakers and leaky paddley pools across Lancashire and Yorkshire. A week of warmth will cause drought conditions and epic queues in supermarkets with shoppers ramming trolleys full with bottled Buxton water. It’s exactly the same stuff that the people of Buxton have in their taps only about hundred times the price. The fire brigade will be on constant BBQ watch. A&E will be out the door with lobster cases. After-sun, aloe vera and minor burn creams will have to be flown in on Hercules transports to top up supplies.
What would happen if the sun came out for a month?
Well try to imagine Dante’s inferno with slightly more empty Stella cans and burnt sausages and you’re on the right track.

Late

I know, I know I’ve been slack but there is good reason for this. Two good reasons actually. Three if you count the ruthless efficiency and fanatical devotion to the Pope. No four..FOUR reasons. I’ll come in again.

Reason 1: MANFLU

There has been lots of speculation that manflu is just a regular cold that the male species fail to adequately deal with. This is not true. Manflu is on a par, if not worse than giving birth. Days and days of hurty head, sore throaty and a dodgy tum tum. It’s no joke I can tell you.
I’m still not over it but I’m being a very brave little soldier about it all. I’ve hardly moaned at all. The type of manflu I had was highly contagious. It was only a matter of time before the wife and kids got it too but as ever they escaped with a lesser version of what I had. This always happens and I think it’s because germs are like the military. Germs know that if they can topple the dominant force then the other family members will quickly fall into line. As I was the first resistance they encountered they threw their best troops in. I had to deal with the bug fighting-elite who carried a much bigger punch than riff raff light infantry viral ranks behind them. The rest of the family only had to deal with the bug reserves who didn’t really have much fight in them to start with. I deserve a medal really.
I’ve never been a sick person (accept when it comes to drowning kittens) but since the sprogs have arrived sleep and the recuperation time necessary to deal with any bug-ular unpleasantness have become one of lives luxury optional extras. My body it would seem has decided to sub-let my throat and chest to every viral nasty out there.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Tell that to Stephen Hawking and he’ll put a black hole in your face before quantum entangling your nads.

Reason 2: Mersey roots

The other reason I’m late with the new bog is because I’ve just discovered that my great, great, great grand parents were scousers. My new found laziness and penchant for nicking stuff is really eating up my spare time. I’m learning the language of my ancestors as well. Repeat after me:
Glaytt grandpappy kudunt nick carz coz dey addent been invented add dey, soez he ‘ad ta nick da shoez off hersez instead.

It’s quite easy once you get the hang of it.

I should have known I was part lay-about, why else would I instinctively leave the warm sunny south coast for the damp northwest and a town where the River Mersey runs straight through the middle…? But even before my slow journey homeward, as a kid I was forced to support Liverpool FC by my inner benefit cheat (cuz Leaver-pule are glaytt and Evertun arr clrap).

I’m not a complete lost cause though as I also have roots in the eastern block, which means I have a natural affinity with plumbing, electrics and cheap labour. So although my dole-scum in me wants to laze about watching Jeremy Kyle, my cabbage munching alternative heritage wants to fix things round the house while smelling of home made vodka.

Half Penny Mojo

I've lost my mojo :-(
To a kid in the eighties that was seriously bad news. Mojos are a tradable commodity like fags are in prison. Just so as you know I'm against the buying and selling of homosexuals by inmates. Finding my mojo is going to be a difficult task especially when you factor in that I'm above average at losing things but only below average at finding them. I reckon it's because deep down I'm such a sharing person. Constantly forgetting where things are is a way for my kind hearted inner self to spread some love....and some car keys.
No it's true.
At least a few times a year for example I share my blood to save the sick and dying, and in return I only demand five cups of tea, four Club biscuits, a packet of Bourbons and the following 24hours in which to express an overbearing smugness and self righteousness that Col. Gaddafi could only dream of. Was it not Shakespeare himself who once said after giving blood, "by the setting of the sun I will have rescued at least one mortal from the bone fingers of the reaper grim and if you cut me now will I not bleed leaf-ed tea from Teto-ley"? I think you'll find it was.
While we're on the subject of Gaddafi, with his constant angry tirades, his bitterness towards the rest of the world, his funny language and the fact that he's called Gaddafi, can we really be sure that he's not actually Welsh?

The fibber from Libbers has said to have "killed Libyans like he kills sheep". Not dogs, not bunny rabbits, not spiders, not wild flowers....no apparently Muammar likes sheep.

Listen back and you'll hear that "I will fight till death and die a martyr" should have been "I will fight till Neath and Dye in Merthyr". The Daffmeister is clearly having a pop at the purposed scrapping of the X43 bus route. If I were a betting man I'd say Gadaffo is from Cardiff and the translator is clearly from Swansea.

No further questions m'lud.

Another example of my sharing awesomeness is when I try and feed the homeless. Why only the other day I was returning from just having bought the European surplus of chocolate on offer in the pound shop, when I past an obviously homeless man huddled in a doorway trying to shelter from a wind so cold you'd swear it was made entirely of polar bear farts. Being the saint that I am I decided to return and offer him some of my excessive choco-loveliness. He went to take it and then declined. And I quote "Is that chocolate? I don't do chocolate".
Various replies went through my head. The one I wanted to say was "this is Cadburys for f##ks sake, not the cheap brown shite Grandma used to try and fob me off with" but instead in the amazement and slight shock of it all I put the 150grams of edible love back in to my bag and walked off. What next I pondered, lactose intolerant beggars, Big Issue sellers who only take BACS or Paypal!

I took it as a sign that I needed to be a bit less giving and a bit more selfish. So, with that in mind I’m going to the coast to live in the tidal ranges.

Give Up

A friend of mine, let’s call her Rachel Dumbint from Justuptheroadford Shire, is trying to give up smoking. She’s tried various methods but the best one for her is patches. She finds putting a fag into her mouth severely hampered by having a small dog stuck to her arm. When she does give in and light up she only manages about two drags before the dog smells smoke, get nervous and extinguishes the situation with the precision of a laser guided stealth bomber. A rather different technique is employed by patches when it comes to putting out a pipe. It would seem that you’re supposed to fight fire with fire and a pipe with pipe. Fortunately, Rachel is young (mentally at least) and there’s still time for her to change before any lasting damage is done to her lungs and her social life. Odour Patches No.1 isn't very nasally appealing.

Oohh if there's a ‘still time’ does that mean there's a fizzy time as well? Do posh people having sparkling time? When I was a youth back in the eighties we had Sodastream time. Nowadays the strap line "get busy with the fizzy" kind of implies humping a 2litre bottle of coke. Well it does to me and don’t say you haven’t thought about it. Just me then.
I have very little time on my hands, or indeed any garden herb, apart from rosemary, dirty cow.

Having a small dog stuck to your arm is clearly a health aid. Having a small dog for companionship is beyond me. If you have nothing else in your life then don’t get a dog, get super fast broadband and an Xbox! I prefer pets that can take care of themselves. I’m not talking about tooled up tortoises or guinea pigs with a grudge but low maintenance pets. A school mate had a right wing water loving rat called Yahvole. It would spend days machining parts for its wheel to make it faster and more efficient. When it finally died of denial a few years later they found false documents and plans of Europe under the bedding.

Giant African land snails, is it me or do they look guilty? With their eyes out on stalks it makes them look as though they’re carrying more than just their homes on their backs. If I didn’t know better I’d say they were drug mules for some organised creepy crawly mafia. Instead of henchmen, the leader Don Gastropone, would employ henchhogs to clean up any trails leading back to him.

Getting back on topic I’ve never had a problem giving up anything. Recent achievements include giving up on: eating properly, exercise, holding in farts (and therefore friends), a career, *reading, not laughing at French misfortune, keeping a breast of topical events, keeping a breast – it ran away to join the circus, my appearance and spill chicken.

*not as in books. I was never any good at words and sentences and stuff I like pictures too much. Rather the blight on the land of Berkshire.

If you give up giving up then surely that should be counted as a fail?

Other questions hurting my head right now are:

Why doesn't onomatopoeia sound like what it is?
How did we live before Sky+?
Do Klingons insure their spaceships? (in particular their Bird-o-Prey invisible ones)
&
Ford Ka drivers, is it me or are they ALL shite?

Hitler Cabs

Average at Best

I’d love to travel and see the wonders of the world but I just can’t afford it. If I had my way air miles would be proportional to how nice you were in day to day life rather than how much you’d just been ripped off in John Lewis. My air miles system would work like this. Really nice people would make it around the world and because they were so nice have a much bigger appreciation for it all. They’d see the wonders of the world first hand and say very nice things about them. Quite nice people would only make it as far as mainland Europe, Spain for example. The barrel scrapers of the planet, drunks, drugies, the cranially challenged, people from Scotland and kids with ASBO’s would only make it as far as places like Blackpool…

…but that would never happen.

The only wonder of the world I’ve seen is the Grand Canyon,…. it was shit. If I’d have known it was just an endless trench visible from space I would have saved my money, stayed at home and watched the gas board dig up the main road, again. Seriously, forget Stonehenge and Roman aqueducts, the exposed pipe work currently on display at the end of our street is positively Jurassic. Pot Noodle containers found at the bottom have been carbon dated back to the when gas was affordable by OAPs!! The shopping trolleys that were uncovered date back to before the pedestrianisation period and possibly life itself. It was from this and other similar discoveries that we get the saying “On a busy high street with a trench no one can hear you drop your trolleys”.

The biggest wonder of the world is the mystery behind footballers salaries. How is it a spotty teenager can rack up millions in just a few years for kicking a ball around competitively for 90mins every Saturday?
I’m not jealous. Actually, I am jealous, jealous that they have ‘a skill’.

Everyone has one special skill, one talent that they can do better than any other mortal. It might be kicking a football, it might be changing nappies in the dark, it might be watching an entire “Someone’s got talent” type show on the Sky planner without once reaching for the fast forward button.
My special skill is being phenomenally good at being slightly above average at everything I do. Take this blog/ramble/collection of words you’re reading/skimming through. By the time you get to the end I can guarantee you, you’ll be having thoughts like, ‘it was alright’, ‘I’ve read better’, ‘what’s for tea tonight?’.
If you enjoyed the start then I’m sorry, you’re going to be hideously disappointed by the end. The end has to be crap to even out any goodness which may have accidentally crept in to the earlier stuff, and thus creating a flimsy pamphlet of offerings only slightly above average quality.
At this point though you might be thinking what a moaning mini, why doesn’t he cheer up? If this tosh doesn’t get better in the next few lines I’m off for a pooh.

You’re right of course, but then you’re the sort of person that probably spotted this was all a poor excuse for a winge a long time ago. You already know that if this were a book you’d only find it in the “Everything’s a quid” bin at Michael Wood services on the M6 (southbound). There’s no way you would have paid full whack for this, not even in paperback. You’re the sort of crazy renegade maverick that makes me look only slightly above average.

I hate you.

It’s not your fault you’re so awesome, not when there’s muppets like me around. I once spent two hours crying over some biscuits because it said ‘tear here’.

why marketing folk are the way they are....abroad

The History of Marketing - Part 2 International

If you've not already listenerated to Part 1 scroll down or use the clicky linky:

http://dawonderful.blogspot.com/2011/01/why-marketing-folk-are-way-they-are.html

now listen 'ere like